December 2012

Perhaps it was the oysters. Or maybe it was the wassail. Whatever, I had this strange dream last night. You know the kind that are vivid and in full color. It began with a  knock at our door. I open the door to see a good friend, a friend who happens to be a fervent Christian, a true pillar of the church, if you know what I mean. Although I’d not expected her visit, I’m delighted to see her. Then she hands to me her new baby, who although tiny and swathed, appears at a quick glance, to have longish blonde hair and hazel eyes. Wait a minute...baby!?! Uh, I didn’t even know she’d been pregnant. As far as I know she’s not married. Heck, I don’t even think she’s had a regular boyfriend recently.

I love babies, so I’m more than happy to take the baby, while she has tea with my husband. It’s warm in our home, so I take off the baby’s hat and jacket and notice that the baby actually has curly red hair and deep green eyes. Hmmm..., must take after the father, I think, as my friend has ‘poker straight’ dark hair and baby blue eyes.

I carry the baby around, pointing out the holiday lights and decorations, and the baby is quite alert, smiling as I point out and name things. Smart baby, I think. But, I now notice in the sparkling tree lights, that the baby actually has kind of an Asian look. The baby’s black hair is straight, like mom’s but, the eyes have a definite almond shape. I wonder if this is a girl baby or a boy baby. Note to self: ask your friend.

I’m enjoying entertaining such a captivating baby but still, it begins to gnaw at me that I should be working on ideas for our holiday greeting card. It’s the 2nd of December and I haven’t even started picking an idea for this year’s card! I find myself thinking, “You know those ‘year in review” cards are nice, but I’ll just bet our life would sound boring to others.
“Boring? No, I think the words peaceful & quiet are more in keeping with your current lifestyle,” says the baby.

What?! This baby can not only talk, but apparently can read my mind, as well. What a genius! What a gem! Why this baby is barely 3 months old.

Hmmm, I kind of purposely think about those photo cards that are so popular now. They say that ‘a picture is worth a thousand words.’ Says baby, “Quite true, an actuality, understood by observation and inference, is certainly worth more than one thousand words, especially inconsequential words, when penned by a fledgling writer..." The baby pauses here. Yeah, yeah, I get you, baby.

“Baby,” I think, “Listen, let’s skip the philosophy, okay? Can you help me here? I need some ideas for this year’s Christmas card. How do I convey to my family & friends that my husband & I treasure each & everyone of them for their unique qualities? How can I design a card that will let them know that we love them exactly as they are, that we’d not change one thing about any of them? And that, collectively, their warmth, love, and support keep us safe, secure and upright.  And, and... And that our jointly-shared laughter & tears sustain us, as does the sun and rain”

“They already know,” Baby replies. By the way, the baby now has a decidedly African appearance. This kaleidoscopic kid is one of the most beautiful babies I’ve ever seen.

Er, uh, okay, but how do I also impart that we wish them a bright 2013, full of hope & confidence.”

“As you form the thought, it is already done,” says Baby, who now has once more morphed. This time I'm certain - the baby is clearly of American Native descent. I’m sure of it.

Securely seat-belted, friend & baby, who now looks to be either of Mexican or maybe or Jewish descent, prepare to drive away. And, I hear her murmur something to the baby.

“Hon, did she call the baby Jesse?” I ask my husband.

“No, I’m sure she said Jess or maybe it was Jem.”

And so, I still don’t know if the kid is a boy or girl. I’m just going to call him or her “Baby Gem.”

Merry everything and everyone, everywhere!

The Prophecy - Conclusion

September 13, 2013

I immediately decided not to tell him that I’d seen a frog of some sort. Maybe a baby frog? It wasn’t more that a half-inch in size. I’d seen the first one jump out of my path as I took a step. I kept my eyes glued as I walked and sure enough a second tiny frog jumped out of my path and into the brush next to the stream. He’ll think I’m crazier than I already am if I’m wrong, so I’ll wait for now.

All day I thought about the frogs. I wondered if they, or more likely their parents, had been underwater when “it” happened. I wondered if maybe the water somehow protected them.

Now I can’t wait to visit the lake.

September 14, 2013

I convinced him to drive to the lake tomorrow. “It’s Sunday tomorrow. What better day for a visit to a lake? Just like old times. We can even take our old tandem kayak. If the water looks safe, that is.” He agreed. He has more experience with kayaks, especially the tandem, which is tricky for me. He’ll be in back. It’ll be my job to be on the watch for rocks and such, especially if the lake is low as we expect.

September 15, 2013

The lake was low, at least six feet lower than when we’d visited last, which was over a year ago. I climbed in and we pushed off. The lake has about a hundred homes on it, occupied by both “summer weekenders” and “full-timers.” Most of the lake is privately owned property, but there is a small public beach and boat ramp. The homes on the lake vary from smallish log cabins on 1/2 acre lots to some newer, large uspcale homes on 10+ acres. We see no people. It was winter when “it” occurred, so few folks would’ve been outside. On a fall morning like this, the lake would be populated with at least a few boats of men out fishing. And maybe some homeowners sitting out drinking coffee? We paddle around the shore of the lake. Well, what is the current shore, for now with the low water, there are some homes that are really ‘beachfront’ and not what the realtor would call ‘waterfront.’ In fact, if we wanted we could probably walk or wade around the entire lakefront. The boats and lifts would have all been pulled from the lake sometime in late October, so it’s basically empty, except for the homes.

I’m on the look for fish or water snakes or amphibians or the like. Between paddles, he’s got his eye on the houses. He keeps sighing and shaking his head, as if ‘such a waste.’ 

At one point, where the water is about 4 feet deep, I was certain I saw what looked like a catfish. I told him I wasn’t feeling well and we headed back to the beach area.

September 17, 2013

It rained again last night and this time the rain gauge showed nearly 1/2 inch. It’s been raining a bit more lately. That should be a good sign, right?

He’s been busy working on our outdoor wood-burning furnace. With no one to refill our tank, we can’t rely on propane to heat the house this winter.  So he’s converting our shed to a furnace, that will pipe hot air into the house. We’d appropriated the materials from a local hardware store. He say it’s got to be away from the house, in case of fire. “And if you ever run out of wood, just get some silage from one of the farms. It’ll burn just as good as the wood.” “Don’t leave me!” I wail. He thinks I’m kidding.

I tell him I’m going to take a walk by the stream. He says I should instead be watching him put the heating system in, so I can understand how it works. “You can teach me all about it, when you’re finished.” “You laugh, but you need to learn how to take care of this equipment.” “I will, I will.”

I was hoping the rain might bring the frogs out. I find one and it’s easier than I’d thought to catch it. It’s pretty small, but it’s definitely a frog. I put it in a little box I brought along. I couldn’t wait to get back and surprise him.

He’s surprised, but ambivalent about the frog. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy as can be,” he says, “I’m just worried about you handling it. You should have used gloves.”

September 29, 2013

I’ve been getting regular lessons in how to operate every piece of equipment we have. He makes me take notes and quizzes me daily. “Why all the fuss? You’re not leaving me are you?” “No, Silly, but if I ever get sick, I need to know I can count on you.”

He makes me take the frog back to the stream. I ask him when we can go back to the lake to look for fish. “Soon,” he says, “but right now we have to get things in place for the winter. We might have to hunker down for a couple of months.”

He also has decided that every other day we will shoot off some of the flares we found in one of the lake houses. We set them off midday and again after dark. “Might as well see if we can get spotted.” Big turnaround, now he wants us to be found. I like to think my frog has given him hope.

October 14, 2013

We’ve gone through many of the lake houses, and the machine sheds at Ralph’s and the Roody’s farms. Taking mostly bottled water, canned food and fuel. But thanks to the farms, we also now have two ATVs, two snowmobiles, and a small tractor with a backhoe. He’s also gone through every medicine cabinet. “What are you looking for?” I ask. “I don’t know. Just looking.”

This morning when he was putting on his socks, I thought I saw him wince in pain. “Are you okay?” He looks up and smiles. “Yep, I’m fine. Just a bit stiff. Gettin’ old, you know.”

October 20, 2013

It occurs to me that he hasn’t wanted to have sex lately, and that he’s taken to having a couple shots of whiskey every night. He sleeps on the far side of the bed, away from me. When he gets up in the middle of the night to urinate, I sometimes call out after him, “Don’t leave me!” It’s supposed to be a joke, and he always laughs.

Tonight when he came back to bed and turned away, I rubbed his back. I was sure that he flinched.

October 21, 2013

I ruffle his hair and ask “Don’t you need a haircut. Your hair is getting a little long.” Then, I saw the sore on his ear.

I thought about that medical encyclopedia he’d taken from one of the lake houses.  I searched the house for it. I found it on the floor, under his side of the bed. I want to look up the word ‘lesion,’ but a bookmark falls out on the page titled ‘skin cancer.’

October 22, 2013 

Today we buried the Roody family, Ralph, his wife and older two children, who still lived at home and finally our neighbor, Rick.

We used the tractor and backhoe. I said the prayers at each home site. Then we came home and burned the clothes we’d worn. He said, “Tick.”

“Tick? What’s that mean?”

“Just another item checked off my list.”

October 23, 2013 

Today was cold, so we tested the wood-burning furnace. I got her started all on my own. He seemed pleased that I was so competent. “You’re really paying attention.”

“Well, writing the description in my journal helps.”

He smiles. He’s thinking about my handwritten journal. It’s one of the first jobs he gave me back when we made plans to go underground. “You like to write, so go for it.”

Even though he’d censured me at first, “The purpose of the journal is to leave a record. That is if we survive, and if someone finds us someday. We’ll have a record of the logistics of how we accomplished it, a written description of our specs, equipment and so on. So, they don’t need to hear about your excitement, fears or sadness. Keep your emotion out of it. Now, don’t cry...”

November 1, 2013 

He’s taught me well. I can be a good student when I wish to apply myself.

Tonight I have given him a sleeping pill. It looks just like the glucosamine he takes to fend off arthritis.

When he’s asleep, when I’m sure he’s really asleep, I’ll go outside and rework the furnace. I’ve got the new piping I’ll use all laid out under the deck. I’ll run the piping from the garage to the house. I’ll turn off all of the vents except the vent to our bedroom. I’ll start the car, which I filled with siphoned gas today. I’ll start the car, let it idle after I’ve connected the exhaust to the piping. I’ll go in our bedroom, close the door and stuff the top and bottom of the door with some wool batting. Then I’ll lay down next to him and wait.

They’ll say it’s wrong, and I’m sorry. But, I won’t watch him keep getting sicker. And, I won’t watch him suffer and worry and fret about me. And I won’t live alone. Call me a coward, if you wish.

If you find my computer journal - I’m leaving it out and open - and if you’re the type who cares more about the ‘logistics,’ go find my handwritten journal. It’s on the desk in the office.

Wish me luck.....

The Prophecy, Part II

August 13, 2013

Our faces fitted with air-filtering masks, our eyes covered in night vision goggles, we pass through the hidden passage. Inside our home, I look around. As far as I can tell nothing has been touched since our departure. He cautiously raises a corner of the window shade. We both peek out and see stars, so we take off the night vision goggles. Stars, millions of them. I run around to another window saying, “Where’s the moon?” He cautions, “Just a peek! Don’t raise the shade.” I find the moon. He takes a look. We smile and hug each other.

He checks out the electrical plugs with a voltage tester he calls his “wiggy.” No power anywhere. “And no generator until we figure things out,” he says, “so, don’t even ask.” In the bedroom we carefully remove the tarp that enwraps our bed, then fold back the blankets. With the air masks on I crawl into my old bed. He says he’s going to look around for a bit. For the first time in a very long time I immediately fall asleep.

I had a dream that I was dying from a poisonous gas and just as I was slipping away, I sat bolt upright in bed. It’s 4 a.m. on my watch. What is that smell? It’s what has caused me to wake. Somehow I’ve incorporated it into my dream. I make a slight move, just to go peek out the window. “Don’t leave the bed!” he says. “But, I have to pee,” I lie. “Wait for me.” “Do you smell anything?” “Yes. Come on, I’ll walk you to the toilet.” He checks the house again, trying to find the origin of the smell. “I dunno, I think it’s coming from outside.”

We sit up together and wait for the sun to rise. And, oh yeah, it still comes up in the East.

August 18, 2013

I think back to my dream last night. Maybe we did die and maybe this is hell we’re in. That’s what I get for wishing I was dead. I know for sure were not in heaven. If it’s hell then hell doesn’t look at all like what I imagined. It certainly smells like what I’d imagined. Our house looks completely normal in the daylight and outside looks like a typical bright sunny day. It’s only when you stare out the window all day, as we have, that you begin to notice the subtleties. He’s determined that we shall not venture outside until we’ve spent some days in careful observation. As we sit side-by-side, I think of the Cat in the Hat kid’s story, except my version would read “So we sat in the house. All those hot, hot, dry days. I sat there with him. We sat there, we two.” 

The first thing we noticed was little or no wind. The trees seemed immobile. We looked for a sign of an animal or an insect. Every so often one of us would exclaim, “Wait! I’m sure I saw a flicker of movement right over there.” But, we’d been unable to confirm anything. Was it our imagination?

And there weren’t any clouds, not a whisper of one. “Well, we’ve had a string of days like that before,” he says confidently. No, not that I ever recall. But, I keep silent. We’ve binoculars and a telescope. We use the binoculars to check out the trees and shrubbery around the house. The trees are definitely stressed, with premature fall foliage, curled dried leaves and showing some canopy loss. We’re no experts so who knows if it’s some type of fungus or disease. “Maybe, it’s a combination of heat and a long dry spell. You know the lawn looks drought-damaged as well.” And still not one sign of a bird, or a plane, and certainly no superman, either. No movement in the sky, no sign of a jet’s vapor trail. Nothing. It’s as if the world were frozen in place outside of our window. We use the telescope to look at our nearest neighbor’s house, which is about a quarter of a mile away. We can see his truck in the driveway, but no sign of him or his dog.

August 20, 2013

After two days of seeing nothing, I had a bit of a breakdown last night and removed my air mask. And since I didn’t keel over and die, he’s decided to take his off, too. And today we’re going outside, although he’s making us wait until twilight to do so, and we’ll have to put the air masks back on, with new filters. He’s mostly worried now about other survivors finding us and harming us or stealing our supplies. “They’ll most likely look for us in the broad daylight or they’ll use thermal imaging and look for us at dark.”

We’ve discovered that the grid on the lawn where the septic field is, has completely collapsed. That could account for the bad smell.

August 21, 2013

Outside, the smell permeates the newly filtered air mask. We don’t see any signs of life around the house, but it is semi-dark and hard to see much. He decided we should try the car and to our surprise, it starts. It’s around 7:40 p.m. when we back out of the garage. He’d already disabled the break lights and interior lights. We drive to our neighbor, Rick’s, house in the semi-dark with the headlights off. I keep my window cracked and the stench follows us. So much for the septic field theory. We pull into our neighbor’s driveway, right behind his truck. He makes me wait in the car with the engine running, while he goes to the door. He knocks, no answer. He tries the doorknob and it turns. That’s the thing about living in the country, lots of folks still don’t lock their doors. He looks back at me and motions for me to stay put. He enters, leaving the door ajar. My heart is pounding. It seems like an eternity, but he returns in just a matter of minutes. He stands for a moment next to the car, then removes his mask and vomits. He looks like a stunned deer, but then gets his composure back, climbs in the car and drives home, all without saying a word.

When were in the house I ask, “He’s dead, isn’t he? And what about his dog?” He just nods and stares out of the window, off into the distance. Finally he says, “That’s what the smell is. It’s the death all around us. I’ll just bet all of Ralph’s hogs are gone along with Ralph and his family. Same for the Roody’s farm and all of their cattle.” Now he’s staring up at the ceiling. “It must be some kind of poisonous gas....” My skin crawls, “What!?” “It must be a gas that’s killed all of the people and fauna, but left the buildings and most of the flora in tact.

September 1, 2013

He’s gotten a lot bolder since our visit to Rick’s house. We still only go out at daybreak or eventide, but today he drove us as far as town, which is almost 9 miles away. He was right about the Roody’s farm. We can see the cattle rotting in the hot sun. No vultures around though. That’s the thing about vultures, they’ll pick apart a carcass until all that’s left is some fur, a spine and a few bones. We sure could use some vultures.

He says that we’ll leave our neighbors be for the time being, but in the winter, we’ll have to bury Rick, Ralph and his family and even the Roodys. 

September 2, 2013

We broke into Casey’s today. Zach must have been late opening up that day. 

So I figure “it,” whatever “it” was, must have happened around 7 a.m. or so. There were two cars parked out front, and the driver in each car was slumped over, rotting in the hot sun. They were probably been waiting for the manager, Zach, to show up. That’s Zach for you, always late.

We smashed the window and it took two of us to do it. We took all of the bottled water, and some soft drinks and gatorade, beer, wine, canned food, basically anything with a good seal. He also siphoned gasoline from the cars outside which we’ll need to run the generator. Finally he cut the lock off the propane tank case and we took as many tanks as we could find that seemed pretty full. We’ll use those for cooking.

September 11, 2013 

It rained last night! Not for very long and the rain gauge barely shows a quarter of an inch, but it was wonderful. I wanted to go out and run around, but he said we’d better let a few rains pass and test the water before we “roll around in it.” He was smiling as he said it though.

We went for an early morning walk near the river. Or what used to be the river. The area we’re near was once nearly 12 feet wide and between 5 and 7 feet deep depending on the time of year. It’s now just about a foot wide and a few inches deep. We’ve still had no rain. Although this month we’ve seen some clouds on occasion. Once in a while the wind picks up as well.

We talk about it constantly and we’re certain we aren’t the only survivors in the world. Just like they say about the universe, we can’t be the only ones. But, where are the others? “They’ll find us eventually,” he says.

September 12, 2013

We were making plans to make a run at the end of the week to Sully’s Food Market, which is about 12 miles away. It’s bigger than Casey’s and if we use Rick’s truck, we can make a nice haul. “We’ll go early,” he says, “and beat the crowds.” I don’t know why, but I laugh out loud. He stops and hugs me. “It’s so good to hear you laugh again.”

We were walking along side the river that’s now a stream, just walking and talking. Mostly talking about making a stop after our trip to Sully’s, to see how the lake looks. There’s a small lake, less than 900 square acres about a mile in from Sully’s. In fact it’s fed by this stream.

And that’s when I saw it. I wasn’t certain at first, so I didn’t say anything, just kept walking, but I could feel my heart quicken. Then, I saw it again. And this time I was certain.

Tune in tomorrow for the conclusion of The Prophecy...

December 21, 2012

I decided to do a short story to celebrate the fact that I’m still around on “doomsday.” It will probably run in three parts, of which I’ve only written one - Nothing like putting pressure on myself. Anyway, I'm thinking that 3 parts will allow me to post one part each day and then switch to a Christmas eve greeting on the 24th.

My disclaimer: What follows is a work of fiction. It’s necessary for me to repeat this each time I post a story, because I guarantee you at least one person in my family will read the story and call or text me. This time it will be with the likes of: “Hey, I didn’t know you guys had an underground shelter!” I asked two family members to read something I wrote. Despite my specifically telling them it was fiction based on something I’d heard as a kid, they both later contacted me, compassionately concerned that I’d been sexually assaulted as a child. “This was just a story. It's not about me!” To this day they give me a sympathetic look and pat my back, or hug me whenever they see me.

The Prophecy

June 21, 2013

Today, I began a journal on my old laptop. We’ve no internet service anymore, but my word processor still works. I’d been keeping a handwritten journal, but he constantly checked it. “You think too much,” he’d say, “And you write too much, too. You’re going to mess this operation of ours up with your emotions.” Based on my writing, he decided I was suffering from anxiety. He made me start taking the anti-anxiety prescription I’d gotten from the doctor seven months ago. He watches me swallow it and all.

We have the general over-the-counter vitamins, plus, medicines like aspirin, ibruprofen, anti-diarrhea, iodine, etc.  But, we’ve never had a sick day since we entombed ourselves. No germs I guess. We’d also gotten some prescriptions from different doctors in the months before, like antibiotics, muscle relaxants, pain killers, sleeping pills and of course, viagra.

When I pulled out the laptop, I told him I was revising all of my old short stories. “It will help me calm down if I have a task that’s both constructive and enjoyable.” I rewrote two longish stories and made him read both versions. Then, I badgered him for his opinions on various wordings. “Which do you like better?” “Yeah, but how about this paragraph?” “Do you think ‘anchored’ would work better here?” That’s all it took. He no longer asks to see what I’m writing on the computer. To be safe, I continue to do a handwritten journal and I keep this journal in a hidden file.

June 22, 2013

We’d never told anyone when we built our “dream home” in a rural area of Iowa, that we were also putting in an underground survival shelter. Of course the contractors were aware, but I’m certain they dismissed us as just a crazy old couple. We’ve been underground for six months now. I wonder sometimes if our children or the authorities have been in the house looking for us. When we come out, sometime six months from now, will they be furious? Or, will they even...

I almost teared up and he immediately noticed. I told him I was just reworking a sad tale. “Take a break,” he says looking at his watch. “We’ll have our tea a half hour early today. Actually, it’s surprising how fast time seems to be pass when you’re on a rigid schedule.

June 23, 2013

Sunday is my favorite day because it’s our least structured day. Here is a typical weekday: Wake up, have coffee. Oh, how I miss the delicious coffee we used to have! Freshly ground beans. I prefer cream and sugar. You know, real half and half. Plus, I’d gotten into the habit of using a battery-operated whisk to add froth to my coffee, just like those fancy cafes. He takes his coffee black, always has. Now we drink the freeze-dried stuff. I’m allowed to add a spoon of powered milk, but no sugar. “We have enough food to last us one year, IF you follow the rules,” he constantly reminds me.

See how I got off-track just thinking about my coffee habits of old? He says I should focus on what we have, not what used to be. “Use that yoga and meditation you’re always bragging about.”

Where was I? Oh yeah, our schedule. Except for Sunday, after coffee, we begin with exercise. First the brain (puzzles, sudoku, crosswords or such). Then we do physical exercise (jogging in place or a step routine. Then he does stretching and weights for strength. I do yoga). After that we have breakfast. After breakfast we “shower” and dress for the day. Depending on the extent of our workout, it’s either a “marine” shower or a quick “navy” shower. We each have four pairs of pajamas and four pairs of everyday clothes and undergarments. We wear each outfit twice, three times if it’s worn on a Sunday, when we “rest.” I do laundry on Saturday.

After our shower we go to “work.” For my husband it’s checking and rechecking our various systems, air filtration/purification, co2, smoke alarms, water storage and purification, waste disposal, power supply, etc. For me it’s checking on our water and food for the day, and any waste processing that’s necessary. If I finish quickly I have time to write. We don’t eat lunch, but do have afternoon tea and whole grain crackers. After each meal, including tea we spend 10 minutes rinsing, brushing and flossing our teeth. Can’t take a chance on tooth or gum decay. We take an afternoon nap. I don’t sleep well, so for me this is usually meditation time.

After rest we read for two hours, then take a “walk,” which is really just pacing in circles. This is the only time he doesn’t reprimand me for reminiscing, as long as I don’t mention family or friends. “Remember the time we were walking on Branch Road and that owl swooped down?” is acceptable, but not “Remember the time we were all walking the beach in Virginia and that wave soaked Joey and we all laughed?” I’ll hear, “You talk too much!”

After our “walk” we have our dinner. We’re permitted alcohol every Wednesday and Saturday evening. I have a small glass of wine and he has a shot of whiskey and one larger glass of wine. “I’m bigger than you,” is his excuse. After dinner, we play rummy or poker or some other simple game while we listen to music until we’re tired. Then he again checks our monitors, while I process waste. Then we go to bed.

Even our sex is scheduled. Two evenings every week. On Wednesday and Saturday, if you couldn’t figure that out. “It’s good for us physically and psychologically” he claims.

June 26, 2013

I’m in charge of meals. Meals are as predictable as the sun rising in the East - I wonder if the sun still does that.  Six days a week, we have rehydrated oatmeal, served with powdered milk and dried fruit for breakfast. Whatever packet I choose for dinner must be eaten two evenings in a row. The food, which we’d bought from a survivalist store, features dinners like vegetable stew, broccoli/cheese casserole, macaroni and cheese, or creamy chicken and vegetables.  I “cook” the food by adding hot water and stirring. The food comes in canisters that will keep it viable for 2o years if the seal is unbroken. Each canister holds a 60 day supply for two persons.

On Sunday our breakfast is dried eggs, zwieback, a slice or two of dried meat and a glass of Tang. Instead of tea on Sunday afternoons we have low-fat chocolate  powdered milk and cookies. For Sunday dinner I take something from our small freezer or our canned food supply. This is the best food we have and I can choose from the likes of Teriyaki Chicken, Chili Macaroni, Spaghetti Marinara, Chicken Fettucini Alfredo, or open a can of creamed corn or lobster bisque. It’s also the only day we have “dessert,” which means we split small bag of candy or a small packet of trail mix.

June 30, 2013

I read somewhere that it usually takes 20 to 40 times of repeated asking/nagging for something you desire before the giver caves. Although, I think they were talking about kids asking parents. I’m going to start asking when we can leave our shelter. If I ask everyday for the next 40 days I’ll be out in time for my August birthday. We were planning on staying for one year, but the thought of being confined for 5 1/2 more months is more than I can bear. I won’t tell him but, I don’t think those anxiety pills are working.

July 4, 2013

He senses that something is wrong with me and he’s right. I just don’t care anymore. Is that depression? He tests our strength and fitness once a week. I usually beat him on flexibility because of my yoga. But, not this time. “You’re not trying.” “Yes, I am. I’m just not as loose anymore.”

I continue to ask daily when we can leave.

July 7, 2013

When I served him the oatmeal this morning, he just sat there for a moment. “You do know this is Sunday, right?” “I’m sorry. My bad. I don’t know what I was thinking.” “It’s okay,” he says and I think he really means it.

July 17, 2013

Today I remembered that day, years ago, when we were vacationing in Yaxuna on  the Yucatan Peninsula and our guide, Rajulio, told us about the Mayan calendar which ended on the 21st of December 2012. That was when he began researching underground survival. We’d had a couple glasses of wine when he first proposed his plan, and you know how that goes, at the time it sounded like a fun idea. So, I complied, after all he was a good husband. I promised I’d tell no one. And didn’t. But, how I now wish I’d resisted. I’d rather be dead, I think.

July 29, 2013

While we were walking in circles today he said, "We’re going to leave the shelter. It will take about two weeks of preparation. I figure we can leave on August 13, which is the date of the onset of the Mayan calendar. It will be likenour new beginning.” It was as if an electric shock went through my body. It jarred me with pain. My mind raced in thought. I was terrified. This is what I’d prayed and longed for. Now I wasn’t so sure. It was safe here, after all. Who knows what lies outside? He thought I was sobbing from happiness.

August 12, 2013

Today is our last day in the shelter. We used up a lot of our water this week in preparation. A sitz bath for each of us. Clean, unworn clothes from an emergency stash. He trimmed his beard, then shaved for the first time since December. I cut his hair. My hair has been uncolored for months. It’s half-dyed and half grown-out grey. I cut off the brown ends and now have a grey pixie cut. He laughs, “It’s cute.” We’re both excited, but frightened.

We’ll be leaving late tomorrow night. “It must be dark outside when we leave,” he says.

Tune in tomorrow for the further adventures of The Prophecy...

Sweetness

The world needs sweetening today, I say. Thus, I made two kinds of holiday candy. If you care for the recipes, check out the King Arthur site. I pretty much followed their recipes for “peppermint crunch bark” and “dark chocolate buttercrunch”-(which is really an English Toffee recipe).

In addition to cooking sweets, I will be ever so sweet to everyone I encounter today. Now, there's a good chance that the only people I see today will be my husband and the clerk at Casey's General Store. Being Sunday, there will be no mail delivery, no chance of the FedEx or UPS guy dropping off a package, and we'll be home watching football for the better part of the afternoon. Although, there is an outside chance a neighbor will drop by, as country folk have a propensity to just drop by. More than once the doorbell has rung with a neighbor saying, "I saw your car in the driveway," or "I saw your lights on." If so, I will greet them with sweetness. Maybe I'll make an offer of bread, cookies and tea, or pizza, candy and wine, depending on the hour.

I had to work quickly this morning because I must make a quick trip to the store and be back before the Bears/Packers kickoff at noon. I still have two loaves of bread and a batch of pizza dough to make today, but I can make those while listening to the game on a Chicago sports radio station. The radio announcers do a much better job than the television announcers, who tend to be biased against the Bears. If there is an interesting play I can dash into the room where my husband is watching the televised version and see it since the TV airplay is on about a 5 second delay.

Peppermint Crunch Bark

English Toffee

Have a sweet day!

(Did you know Chicago Bear Walter Peyton (R.I.P.) got his nickname because his demeanor on and off the football field was so different. Obviously, he was rough on-field and would just as soon stiff-arm you as look at you. The contrast with his sweet off-field personality earned him the nickname, "Sweetness". - Suuweeet, how I worked the word different into this posting.) 

Thoughts rushed through my mind. Mostly like this: ‘What!?’ Then, ‘who!!?’ ‘Where?’ and finally: why, why, why, why, why...?

I had no words to write. I was struck dumb, speechless of pen, anyway. I had no words because there are no words. No words that could possible help, not even one iota. But, I had a heart filled with compassion and so I cried.

(Just out of curiosity, today I visited the NRA website. Apparently they have no words either, because as of this posting - and I mean it's been 24 hours- they mention not a word of condolence.)

A Different Method of Communication

When I was a kid, my only grandparent lived 257 miles away. I usually saw him for two periods of time each year. In the summer I would stay at his Wisconsin home for a week. And every year, until his health failed him, he would stay with us during football season, to visit Soldier Field for the college all-star game or to watch his beloved Green Bay Packers play the Chicago Bears.

I loved my grandfather and retain only positive memories of him. I never heard him raise his voice, although my uncle Gene assures me that, at times, indeed he did. I remember that his adult daughters would not partake of alcohol or use profane language in his presence, although heaven knows such use was a normal part of their lives otherwise.

He was an avid hunter and fisherman. (hello? did you not read Wisconsin?)

I have two, no make that three, especially vivid memories of my time with my grandfather. But, the third involves my thumb becoming caught in the tailgate of his pickup truck, so we’ll just skip that one.

One remembrance is of him cooking for me a rainbow trout he’d caught. He pointed out the rainbow on the fish, all pale tones of brown, orange, pink, yellow, purple and blue. I remember the spots on the fish. He was was crouched down next to me, so he’d be at my eye level, a sweet smile on his face as he whispered, “I’m going to share a secret with you, my favorite part of a fish.” I remember standing there with my mouth agape and eyes wide open. He pointed with a fork to the cheek of the fish and scooped a tiny pale salmon-colored morsel of meat out, and put it in my open mouth. “The cheek holds the sweetest part of the trout.” He was right. It was the best part.

My second treasured memory is of my grandfather making a tin can “telephone” for me. I think he might have even used fishing line for the wire connecting the two tin cans. I would sit at the top of the staircase and he at the bottom and we would talk.

Fast-forward to today, where my husband and I communicate with our two grandchildren, who now live over 700 driving miles away. We marvel at their savvy with Skype and FaceTime. It turns out, our younger 5-year-old granddaughter is quite the ham once the camera is upon her. The older grandson is 7, so he’s able to read and thus can also text us. We can ask him directly what he would like for a Christmas present (& later check with Mom & Dad to be certain it's approved).

Nothing can ever replace the feel of a grandchild’s head nestled against your shoulder as you watch a dvd together. Nothing can replace kissing their forehead when you tuck them in at night, or spoiling them with homemade donuts for breakfast. But, it's definitely the  highlight of our week to receive a spontaneous FaceTime from a five year old belting out a tune, or a seven year old sharing a photo of a chameleon he spotted. It surely beats the heck out of waiting for a twice-a-year in-person visit.

Different? - Visit California

Even though my husband lived there for 1 year or more, I found myself 40+ years old having never set a foot in the state of California. He was itching to show me the area. I’d read somewhere that, according to some public opinion poll, California is the most disliked state. (Hawaii is the most loved.) And, I’ll admit it: I had preconceived negative notions about the state. I came prepared to dislike it but, upon visiting, I found that it really had a charm. I could certainly understand the attraction. I’m not saying I’d like to live there, but if you like “diverse,” if you like “different” California practically owns it.

Why the hatred? Some theorize it is its left-leaning politics. That could be why it looked okay to me from my own port list.

CA attracts practically every ethnicity in the world. And in its terrain, you’ll find mountains, fertile farming areas, flatlands, hills, and breathtaking ocean shores with soft sandy surfing beaches and rugged rocky coast. For climate, they have both desert heat and snow (simultaneously) with Death Valley and Mount Whitney, the lowest and highest points in the contiguous 48 states. They have “wine country”, the Sequoias, the Redwoods, Yosemite, the Channel Islands, Joshua Tree Park. And how apt is having the Hollywood Walk of Fame right near the La Brea Tar Pits?

Their state song is “I Love You, California,” which begins with “I love you, California, you’re the greatest state of all.” I read the lyrics and hokey thought they be, I could see where the lyricist was coming from. And I’ll forgive the line in the chorus that reads: “Every breeze bearing rich perfume.” Written in 1913, she obviously never drove on today’s LA freeways.

Anyway, what brought me to this train-of-thought is those dad-blasted California Real Milk commercials they play on television here in America’s Heartland. If you haven’t seen them, let me tell you that it is a series of TV ads that portray bucolic scenes of sun-bathed, serene California cows happily munching away, contrasted with miserable-looking Midwest cows shivering in driving snowstorms. The ads go on to say something like “would you like your milk from happy California cows or from stressed-out Wisconsin cows?”

I’m not sure why these ads get my goat (pun intended), but they do. I’d love to see the Wisconsin dairy marketers run my ads, which would picture California cows fleeing in fear from the earthquakes, wildfires, and landslides. (And now that I think of it those rolling power blackouts would have to impact those robotic milking machines.)

But, leave my Heartland out of this!

I think... at least I hope I put in my  Blogger information somewhere that my blog is an exercise in writing for me. Exercise, as in, using my brain to prevent atrophy. Anyway, sometimes I post fiction. And this tale is fiction. Any familiarity to anyone I know is purely accidental. This story is a product of my crazed imagination. (I can visualize my sister's eyebrows arching as she reads this. I anticipate the telephone call or email this is going to elicit from my sister. “You know, some people believe all this crap you write.” Or, “Dear, not everyone gets your humor.” Hmm, I guess she’s got a point. I’m probably the only person who finds me funny.)

Beans, A Different Tale

The phone rings. I glance at the caller I.D. and see my sister’s name pop up. I have the usual hesitation before I pick up the phone. “Okay, Sofe,” I tell myself, “brace yourself.”

“Hellooo!” I answer, in some goofy attempt to put gaiety into my voice.

“Uh..., Sophie?”

Yup, she heard me trying to force it.

“Yes, it’s me. Hi, Beatrice.” I call her by her given name and not the childhood nickname she’d never outgrown, Beans.

“Sophie,” she begins awkwardly. “Um, listen, did you know this is the 6-month anniversary of our sister, Lisa’s death?”

“Yes, I did. I saw it posted on Lisa’s daughter’s Facebook page.”

“Oh, I wish I had a computer...” She gives off a faint laugh here. “I’m so behind on things like that. Well, I just wanted to make sure that you knew. Did Mealy call you? I called her and she promised me that she would call and remind you.”

“Well, she didn’t!” I don’t mention that our youngest sister, Amelia, and I are barely on speaking terms at the moment. But that’s another story.

There is a long pause and I know that she’s bothered by the fact that Amelia has failed to pass along what she, Beans, considers to be vital information. Poor Amelia. I’m sure I just set her up for an earsplitting rant. Oh, well, too bad for her. That's what she gets.

“Anyway I just called because I wanted to make sure that you knew,” she repeats. Then hesitantly, “You..., you know, Sophie, um, we..., on the anniversary of our ancestor’s death, we, I mean our family, we have a custom. It’s a custom that we put out a little..., well you know, a little dish of the favorite food of our relative on their death anniversary, to sort of honor them.” Another pause. I wait patiently. “Not that I even know what her favorite food is!” She bursts out with a loud guffaw and I can picture her throwing her head back with laughter. She catches her breath. “So, maybe you could do that, huh? Oh, and while you’re at it, put a little glass of wine out with the food, if you know what I mean.” She has a good chortle here. Then, quietly, “Oh, but hey, I forgot, you’re Catholic now. So maybe you can just say a little Catholic prayer, you know, in memory of our sister.” Beans sounds like she’s crying now. Just a short conversation with ol’ Beans can run the emotional gamut like that.

Meanwhile, I’m thinking “What family is she even talking about?” Never, do I ever remember seeing or hearing of any relatives putting dishes of food out on the anniversary of anyone’s death. Not that I would challenge Beans about it. There’d be no sense in further upsetting her. Besides I do marvel at how she still attempts to finagle us into her made-up rituals.

My sister has always been, well, different. Her birth had been a difficult one for our mother and she’d suffered brain injury as a result. In those days, there wasn’t much offered my mother in the way of rehabilitation or early intervention. The rural hospital simply sent my mother and her brain-injured baby home with a wish for “good luck.”

When I was a child, I once overheard someone whisper that my sister, Beans, was “not quite right in the head.” I’d tried to research that phrase at the library and found a science dictionary that said it meant, “to be lacking in one or more of the mental abilities that most people have.” I guess that would sum up Beans pretty well. But, what the definition didn’t include was that she also had an excess in an area that most people don’t have. When it came to tact or diplomacy she had none, but what a talent she had for the theatrics. If I’d accuse her of taking a favorite sweater, she’d remonstrate with such emotion, that’d I’d end up begging her forgiveness for having even considered such a thought. Then later, I’d find my sweater, tucked under her pillow.

When our sister, Lisa, was in the hospital, the staff gathered my siblings and I to discuss “end-of-life” options. While a male doctor carefully explained the delicate situation, Beans, stood beside him, intently looking up at him, as though carefully discerning his every word. When he finished, she said, “Your teeth are so perfect. In fact, you’re so beautiful, I’d like to lick your face.” Yup, that’s my sister, Beans. She’s different and I love her. So, I dutifully promise her, smiling to myself, that I will both, say a Catholic prayer and put out a dish of food with a little glass of wine.